by Jenny Colgan
‘Who wouldn’t want a crocodile?’
Arthur shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘What’s the matter?’
Arthur looked at her kind face. Today, her hair, decorated with pendants that looked like leaves, was loosely pinned back in a bun with tendrils escaping.
‘Well …’ He explained about his conversation with Gwyneth. She was meant to be his counsellor, after all.
‘Hum.’ Lynne stared straight ahead. ‘That was quick.’
‘What? You knew they were going to do this?’
‘No, of course not. Not as such,’ said Lynne, twisting up her face. ‘Office grapevine, you know.’
Arthur nodded.
‘So. How are you going to begin?’
Arthur shrugged. ‘I was actually just considering … that I might not.’
‘Might not? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘What’s ridiculous? Do I have the look of the man who’s going to spend the rest of his life stuck in an office?’
‘Around the mouth … and the nose, yes.’
Arthur grimaced and walked on. Lynne caught up with him.
‘I think it is time, don’t you?’
‘What?’ He turned round. ‘It’s not my time.’
‘It is,’ said Lynne urgently. She looked at him, and he felt something odd pass between them. He shook his head.
‘Sorry – I don’t quite know what I meant by that. I mean – well, what do you mean? Time for what?’
‘Time for you to take all this energy and …’ Lynne cast her hand around the desolate parking garage where they found themselves. It was puddled with oil and cigarette ends. ‘Ssh,’ she said.
Arthur followed her gaze. In the far corner, three white faces were huddled round a brazier, staring at them like ghosts out of the darkness. Not an unfamiliar sight in the back roads of the town. Arthur and Lynne quickly hurried on through the car park.
‘Who’s going to change all this if you don’t?’
‘What, now you want me to tackle the drugs problem?’
‘Environment matters, you know that. Pride, Arthur. It’s time to pick up your sword and go for it.’
‘Pick up my what?’
‘It’s just an expression.’
‘Oh. Only I seem to have been hearing about swords rather a lot recently.’
‘Yes, well unfortunately I’m not a Freudian type of analyst, so I can’t help you with that one.’
‘What sort of analyst are you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just see how it goes along, eh?’
‘You are a real therapist, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she patted him on the arm. ‘Yes, I am. Now, what have they asked you to do? Fire someone?’
Arthur gave her a sharp look. ‘Do you do everyone’s therapy or just mine?’
‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, then. Obviously you already know. Yes, they have.’
‘Then do it quickly. Show who’s in charge. Don’t mess around. If you’re going to run this thing, Arthur, you’re going to need respect.’
‘I know. But even though I hate the guy, I don’t want to ruin his …’
‘Week, perhaps? Month, maybe? His type always bounces back. Look over there.’
Arthur followed where her finger was pointing. Two nine-year-old boys were bent over a rain puddle in the cracked concrete. They should have been at school. Instead they were mindlessly, repetitively, picking up pieces of rubbish, setting them on fire with a lighter and dropping them in the water.
‘You don’t have long,’ said Lynne. Arthur watched the two boys for a moment more.
‘But I …’ He turned round. In the darkness of the car park, Lynne had gone.
Ross was sitting alone in the canteen, a place made up of hideous plastic furniture that somebody believed would be made to look like the Dorchester by the addition of some wickerwork and some pathetically touching pot plants. He was rocking on the edge of his chair and prodding a pencil at a glutinous piece of Danish pastry. Arthur stood in the doorway and looked at him. Suddenly, he didn’t look much of a tosspot any more. He looked like an ordinary young man, already running to fat, anxious and insecure.
‘Ross,’ said Arthur softly. He’d felt nervous about doing this, but seeing him, he couldn’t be.
Ross blinked and let his chair fall back to the table with a start. He couldn’t quite look at Arthur but stared straight ahead.
‘Hey Art!’ he said, forcing the jocularity into his voice.
‘Do you want a coffee or something?’ As soon as he’d said that, Arthur realized it was cruel. Why prolong the uncertainty while he buggered about getting a cup of coffee? He might as well have said, ‘Would you like an extra four and a half minutes of excruciating torture?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Ross.
‘Ross …’
‘Yeah? What? Good news, is it?’ He coughed a cynical laugh.
‘No,’ said Arthur. He wondered if Ross would punch him, but he still felt all right; quite under control.
‘Ross, they’re doing something different. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.’
Ross stood up, as if he couldn’t bear to be any closer in airspace to Arthur. ‘God, God, I bloody knew it.’
‘I understand you’ll be feeling upset …’
‘Might have known they’d get some namby pamby PC non-car bloody saddo who just happens to be good at fucking poofter tests …’
‘Okay … maybe not quite that upset.’
‘I told ’em. Sort out the roads. Build more. Don’t hire some soft wanker who can’t even get laid.’
‘Yes, well, we seem to be moving from upset to offensive …’
‘And now they’ve got you running the whole bloody town! Well, God help them, that’s all I can say.’
Ross stood up and kicked his plastic chair crossly, his heavily gelled ginger hair sticking straight up from his forehead. He advanced on Arthur.
‘I don’t give a fuck, you know. You’re not the first guy in here. Some bloke walked in and offered me a job in Slough. You just bloody watch me. I’ll sort out that place and we’ll be using your fucking pedestrianized precincts as car parks.’
Arthur got riled. ‘That will be great. Why have just one town hating you when there are so many more opportunities out there?’
Ross leaned into him menacingly. The room was eerily silent, it still being out of lunch-hour time. Arthur suddenly found himself thinking back to his first and only fight ever. He was ten years old and, after kicking the shit out of everyone in the class in ascending order of size, McGuire had finally got round to him. The time had been pre-ordained. The class had encircled them. Arthur had taken a deep breath, trying to remember what his stepfather had told him – ‘Don’t worry, son, you only have to square up to the bullies once, then they’ll leave you alone. Run at him as fast as you can and try and hit him on the nose.’ Of course McGuire had held out one arm, held him by the forehead and pounded him into the ground – on that day and so many days after that, it long ceased to be a spectator sport. Arthur’s nerves were not, at the moment, at their boldest.
Without warning, Ross’s left arm shot out and smashed him on the ear. It felt like being stung by an extremely large bee. Arthur was dimly aware of a buzzing noise, then realized there wasn’t a bee, it was the rest of the office, attracted to the open door of the restaurant. Before he could stop to think, the adrenalin kicked in, and he threw up his arms like he was playing volleyball. He caught Ross a glancing blow on the underside of the nose. Ross grunted and staggered backwards a few feet. Whilst Arthur was taking this in, Ross threw out a foot and cracked it into his gut. Arthur squealed – it was as undignified as that – but, finding it in him to ignore the pain, came charging forward, yelling and letting fly with an erratic punch which landed straight in Ross’s eye socket.
Ross was roaring now, like a giant bear, lunging around with his hand to his eye. Furiously, he dragged
up one of the plastic chairs which, Arthur dully noted somewhere in the bottom of his mind, were normally bolted to the floor, and brandished it in the air across the canteen.
And Arthur, noted coward, who had never done anything even vaguely out of step in his life before yesterday, who had balked at everything that came his way, who was ready to get soft and old in his middle age, said something he’d never said before in his life, not even in fun. Instead of clenching his body and waiting for the blow or trying to make himself as small as possible, he pushed out his shoulders and opened his body wide, like a gorilla, or Russell Crowe. He stood, legs apart, eyeing up the other man with as much ferocity as he could muster.
‘BRING IT ON!!!’ he roared.
The sound bellowed and bounced off the walls. Then – silence.
Ross and Arthur stared at each other. The crowd of people by the door were completely silent. Nobody dared breathe. Then, with a crash, Ross hurled the chair across the room, but away from Arthur. It split through a picture frame hung from the raffia.
‘Fuck you! This will come around,’ said Ross, his face purple and red to bursting. He pointed his finger at Arthur. ‘THIS WILL COME AROUND!!’
And he stormed out of the room, leaving Arthur and the rest of the office staring in his wake.
‘How was your day?’ Fay asked carefully.
‘Oh, oh, it was fine, you know. Usual.’
This was becoming a nightmare. He used to share everything with her. Now he could barely talk to her beyond politeness, before she’d sigh and start mentioning somebody or other’s toddler who had done something which was supposedly cute but in fact just sounded incredibly annoying.
Fay was well aware of this. She flicked quickly through Heat magazine, elaborately casual.
‘So the black eye …’
Arthur winced. Okay, that was stupid. Perhaps he should have double-checked for the visual evidence.
Fay let out a long sigh. She remembered what the book had said – never nag, never burrow into his affairs. She tried to do her best. But he was late, tired, distracted, he’d hardly said a word to her for what felt like months – ooh, and, by the way, there was blood on his collar and he had a black eye. Her man – the sweet, gentle man she’d fallen in love with five years ago at a training conference in Peterborough – couldn’t even tell her why he was dripping blood. She set aside her magazine.
‘Arthur, we have to talk.’
He grunted into his newspaper. Yes, he knew they did. He looked up at her. His eyes were hollow.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘Well …’ Arthur did a quick summary in his head.
Hmm not that bit … No, maybe not that …
‘I got promoted.’
Fay’s face lit up. ‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, really.’
‘But this is brilliant!’ Her eyes shone. ‘I mean … we’ll have enough money to – hang on.’
She ran to the fridge and came back with a bottle of champagne they’d been keeping for good news.
‘This is so fantastic!’ She kissed him on the top of his head. ‘You’re so clever, darling! And think what we can do now …’ She straightened up for a second and smiled at him. ‘And the black eye is, what – the official entry token to the executive washroom?’
‘I had to fire Ross,’ said Arthur matter-of-factly, uncorking the bottle.
‘Oh! God, well, that’s even more brilliant. Isn’t he the one you thought was a bit of a tosspot?’
Arthur nodded. ‘With a good tossy right hook.’
‘Ooh!’ She sat by his knees, hugging her own, and lifted up her glass to be filled. This was it. This was the moment. No wonder he’d been so quiet, if he’d been working up to such a wonderful surprise!
‘So, there’ll be a bit more money coming in, won’t there?’
‘Um, we didn’t discuss it … Probably.’
Oh God, thought Arthur. He suddenly had an inkling as to where this was heading. Thank God his eye was already black. Although of course she could still scratch it out.
‘So, you know, maybe we could …’ She twirled her manicured finger around the top of her glass. Looking at it, Arthur realized for the first time that he didn’t really like manicures. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to sound like he was encouraging her. The pause grew longer. She looked up at him, firstly with hope, then, as the silence continued, almost as he watched, the light in her eyes slowly dimmed.
She stared at the seagrass carpet for an even longer time. It was killing Arthur to keep quiet, but he didn’t know what else to do. He felt a lump in his throat. The wait grew interminable. Finally, and very slowly, she raised her head back up to look at him. Her eyes were full of tears, quivering, hovering and waiting to fall.
‘Are we …’ She was attempting to sound dignified, but there was an immediate wobble to her voice. ‘Are we – are you …’ She shook her head to get a grip, and managed to steady herself. ‘Do you really want to be with me, Arthur? Properly? To settle down and have a – a family and everything?’ Immediately her eyes flicked away. A ten-ton weight settled on Arthur’s ribcage. He had to say something soon. He had to.
He couldn’t think of anything. He was failing.
‘Aren’t you even going to talk to me?’ The tears were falling now.
‘Aren’t you going to even deign to … Am I really worth that little to you?’
Fay’s voice was angry now, and hard.
‘Look at me, Arthur.’
Slowly, Arthur lifted his head. Her face was white, and her hands were gripping the wine glass so hard it was frightening. Neither of them spoke. Arthur loathed himself, and his cowardice.
‘Are you – are you talking about having a baby?’ Arthur managed to force out, quietly.
‘No!’ said Fay, indignant. ‘Can’t I ask a perfectly reasonable question about where our relationship’s headed without it turning into a big fuss about … babies.’
‘Oh. Only, I thought you were talking about babies.’
‘Yes, of course I’m talking about babies.’
She attempted to laugh and half choked, loudly in the quiet room. Arthur reached out his hand to her but she shook it off.
‘Fay, – I’m not sure I’m ready.’
Her face creased with disappointment, then she took a breath. ‘How … How … When would you be ready? We have three bedrooms and two cars, for fuck’s sake!’
‘I know.’
‘We chose this place together!’
‘You chose it, Fay,’ he said, as gently as he could, realizing of course that this wasn’t fair.
‘I chose it because … because we’re going out and you’re thirty bloody two years old! And so am I, nearly! We’re not fifteen! You don’t fuck about with someone just to go out with them!’
‘I – I’m not fucking about with you.’
‘I’m thirty-one years old. If you don’t want to get married and have a family with me, you’re fucking about.’
Arthur felt disgruntled. ‘Who invented that rule? I thought we were having a perfectly nice time.’
‘Did you?’
He ignored the obvious truth in her statement.
‘I don’t see why, just because we’re seeing each other … I mean, I don’t owe you anything.’
As soon as he said this he realized how awful it was. She blinked twice rapidly and edged away from him. ‘You … you …’
‘Listen, Fay, I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. It’s just … I’ve had a really tough day and you’ve just started in on this and …’
But she had already stood up and was backing away across the room.
‘Look, Fay.’
But she didn’t even look like Fay any more. She looked like some strange person he’d never met before in his life. Her eyes frightened him.
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ she echoed.
‘Oh, come on, let’s talk about it.’
‘No, no need for that. You
don’t owe me a thing.’
‘Fa-ay.’
Now she looked around, bewildered. She stopped herself. ‘Well,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Well, I guess I’ll be back to pick up my stuff … whenever …’ She cast an eye round the tasteful living room that they’d gone down to London to furnish – the brown leather sofa, the Habitat rug, the widescreen TV. Suddenly she had pulled herself together, and was eerily calm.
‘You owe me that sofa,’ she said. Arthur was standing now, casting his arms around, trying to say something, anything, but realizing as he did so that somewhere, underneath all of this, there was a definite feeling of relief – and that this was the biggest betrayal of all.
‘You … you betrayed me,’ she said, unnervingly voicing exactly what was going through his head. ‘Maybe not with another woman – but then, of course, I don’t know you at all, do I?’
‘There aren’t any other women,’ said Arthur dully, although he couldn’t help wondering – it was a flash, nothing more – about Gwyneth’s set up.
‘But you betrayed me, nonetheless. You saw me every day and you knew absolutely what I was in for, and absolutely what I was after and you spat on it and pissed it out the window the whole damn time. Did you laugh as the years went by, Arthur? Did you laugh every day because I still hadn’t cottoned on that nothing – nothing I did was any use? That there was nothing I could do? You stole that time from me, Arthur Pendleton. You stole it, and you know you did.’
‘I …’ Arthur exclaimed helplessly.
‘You absolute wretch. Well, fuck you! That’s my curse on you. Fuck you and everything that will ever happen to you.’
‘I wish people would stop saying that today.’
‘Fuck you,’ she said again, and it echoed around the room as she slammed the door. Arthur stood there for a second, until she marched back in, scooped up the television remote control, her bag, her dressing gown, then stood in front of him where he was frozen to the carpet and calmly blacked his other eye.
Chapter Three
‘I think I’d maybe … I’d quite like to come in and see you.’
Lynne regarded the strange purple-eyed apparition peering round her doorway coolly. Arthur had driven in at five miles an hour.